Trip over the feet of the man at 'Marks', fast asleep in the doorway, a pretence of a lay-by on a street where the days fly away a cardboard canopy for cover, we don't know how lucky we are.
Familiar sounds of the family around me, turkey and the trimmings, brimming with joy toys for the children and the Queen on the TV we don't know how lucky we are.
On the morning of the Nazarene in the shadows of the halogen I see him again in the doorway which seems so far away from this Christmas day.
And how lucky I am not to be the 'Marks' man in the cold of December.
I only remember in fragments the guttural and statements made in my haste or in moments of stress, the man at 'Marks' is not well does not dress well or smell nice, but it would be nice if we could be nice to people like him who are people like us and if they cuss you and curse you then more fool you to think it's aimed at you, some do I don't.
No need to make a song and dance about it just stop for a bit and offer a smile, a sandwich, a tea, we don't know how lucky we are but he does.
The orphans of Oxford Street. I always think that when I'm down there and see so many sleeping in doorways.